


Roman Holiday

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [114]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belly Kink, Button Popping, Established Relationship, F/M, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, Food Sex, Future Fic, Older Characters, Romantic Comedy, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:17:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2238699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Italy was all Buffy had hoped it would be and more, and halfway through their sabbatical, there was noticeably more Buffy.  It didn't help that Spike was enthusiastically in favor of her increasingly voluptuous silhouette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roman Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as "Raising In the Sun," "Necessary Evils," and "A Parliament of Monsters." This is pure 100-proof unadulterated idfic. Which I revised seventeen thousand times until it kind of has a plot and a theme and stuff. Because THAT'S THE WAY I ROLL, BITCHES. I didn't inflict this self-indulgent mess on any of my poor longsuffering betas, and all errors are my own. This story came about more or less like this:
> 
> INT. BARB'S HEAD. BUFFY wanders in from stage left, followed by SPIKE.  
> BUFFY: Hey, you know, you should write something.  
> BARB: I wrote five hundred words of POM last week. Leave me alone.  
> SPIKE: It was more like three hundred words, really.  
> [BARB grits her teeth and stabs the delete key. It doesn't work.]  
> BUFFY: Oooh, wait, I know! You should write that story!  
> BARB: [irritated, but at this point, she's desperate] What story?  
> SPIKE: You know. The one where we're a bit older and have put on a few, but we're still really fit and have incredible sex. That story's bloody brilliant.  
> BUFFY: Or the one where we eat all the delicious food that's made us put on a few, and have incredible sex. We're not fussy.  
> BARB: I've already written those stories. Both of them. Several times.  
> SPIKE: Not our problem. Write 'em again.  
> BUFFY: Oh, and can you set it in Italy this time? I've always wanted to go to Italy.  
> Spike: [grins] You know you want to.  
> BARB: [throws up her hands] Fine! Don't blame me if people roll their eyes and say it's getting repetitious.  
> BUFFY: Yeah, yeah. Bring on the tiramisu.
> 
> (So really? This is all their fault. )

"I've never heard of the guy." Buffy flipped the heavy cream linen note over, looking for clues, but there was nothing beyond "To Mr. & Mrs. Summers-Pratt, hoping this finds you well: The Immortal requests the pleasure of your company," in swirly yet masculine handwriting, along with the date and address that the pleasure of their company was requested. 

It was a balmy Saturday night in June, and they were strolling along the Via Aurelia back to their rented flat, after a truly spectacular dinner at the Trattoria Monti. Spike glanced at the card and snorted. "He's just a git Angel and I ran into when we were here in the '90s. The last '90s but one, I mean. We didn't part on good terms. I'd say he owes me a free dinner, at the least." 

"We don't have to go if you don't want to." Buffy folded the note in half and tucked it dismissively into her purse. "If it doesn't fit The Plan..."

When Spike had sprung the Italy trip on her, at the Christmas just before her sixtieth birthday, Buffy had decided that they needed a Plan. She had spent the better part of two weeks pondering the details. In the end, it consisted of two words: Enjoy yourself. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of Slayers out there now, all across the world. Their own daughter Connie had Sunnydale well under control. They were allowed a slaycation: a whole year devoted to rest, relaxation, and letting themselves go. Sightseeing and shopping, museums and picturesque ruins, nightclubs and beaches, and last but most certainly not least, food, glorious food. 

Spike smirked and flicked his cigarette into the gutter. "Eh, as if I'd miss a chance to show you off. " 

Buffy eased a thumb beneath the waistband of her jeans. Halfway through tonight's second helping of _carbonara_ she’d surreptitiously popped the top button, before it had a chance to part company of its own accord, but that might have been a tactical error - her zipper wasn't up to the job of holding in all that carbonara on its own, and she wasn't sure she could get it re-buttoned now. It had been hard enough getting it buttoned this morning. "Well, there's certainly plenty of me to show off at the moment."

She'd built up Europe in her head for so long as an unattainable dream that part of her had been afraid it would end up a disappointment. But Italy was all Buffy had hoped it would be and more, and halfway through their sabbatical, there was noticeably more Buffy. It wasn't as if she'd been exactly skinny to begin with. Slayer metabolism never rested; the accelerated healing that kept her joints as supple and her arteries as clear as a woman half her age burned a lot of calories. She could lose weight on the recommended two thousand a day. But after five kids and thirty-odd years with a husband who counted feeding her up, as he called it, among his favorite pastimes, it had been a long time since she'd fit into a size zero. Or a size two, for that matter. When she'd got off the plane, she'd been curvy. 

Six months later, she verged upon _zaftig_. Her breasts swelled over her decolletage. Her hips strained the seams of her most forgiving pairs of pants, and her thighs brushed. She had a real tummy now, round and soft and jiggly. And getting rounder; for the last two weeks Spike had really outdone himself in the feeding up department. Their main source of exercise had consisted of strolling through picturesque streets from _ristorante_ to _trattoria_ to _osteria_ – ostensibly because Spike needed to duck out of the sun periodically to avoid charbroiling, but they both knew that was just an excuse to gorge themselves on an endless, moveable feast. Somehow, no matter which direction they went, Spike kept remembering another little place just around the next corner that they had to try, and they'd tried them all. 

“Not seeing that as a problem, myself.” Spike's hand took up proprietary residence on the worn denim stretched dangerously tight over the plush curve of her ass. It didn't help that he was enthusiastically in favor of her increasingly voluptuous silhouette. He'd grown up in an era when women concerned about their figures were more likely to send away for patent plumping formulas than diet pills, after all. "He's a bloke who appreciates _abbondanza_ as much as I do."

“I hope you appreciate another trip to the Parco Leonardo tomorrow.” Maybe it was time to give in and admit it was past time to move up to a size six. Wait, no -- these jeans _were_ size sixes.“The Plan is – oof!” With a deep breath and an exertion of Slayer strength, she managed to get the offending button fastened again. “Working a little too well for my wardrobe to keep up with.” 

The laugh-lines around his eyes deepened in amusement. He was still impossibly handsome, all these years later. Older, yeah – the curls ruffled by the warm night breeze were iron-grey, and his t-shirt pulled tight across a substantial little paunch. Even as a standard-issue vampire, Spike had loved food. After the Mohra blood incident had resulted in his acquisition of a heartbeat and a working set of taste buds, he'd loved it even more, but his rigorous workout regimen had kept his waistline in check well into middle age. The muscular breadth of the shoulders filling out his battered old leather jacket attested that he still worked out, but in human years he was halfway through his sixties and starting to get downright stocky. "Still not seeing the problem." 

"Easy for you to say. You can just let your belt out again." 

Spike just chuckled. He laughed a lot, these days; being well-fed put him in good humor. "I'm on the last hole. You've got to remember, pet, back in my day, a gentleman of a certain age and station was expected to cultivate chin-whiskers and a gut. I've reached the station, I'm a hundred years past the age, and I look like a bloody berk in chin-whiskers. Much more fun cultivating the gut." 

"Mmm, well, I have a certain fondness for it myself." She hooked her arm around his waist and leaned into his shoulder. She didn't miss the washboard abs; they'd been undeniably decorative, but the fact was, she liked his belly. Spike didn't run to flab; his paunch was almost as firm as the muscle that anchored it, as solid and consequential as any Victorian gentleman could have wished for. 

The buildings between the Via Adeodata Roma and the Via Cardinale Mistrangelo dated back to the twentieth century, young by Roman standards, three and four floors of terraced apartments leaning out over the little shopfronts which crowded along the Aurelian Way. Spike got an indecent kick out of the naming coincidence; he'd voted for renting this flat over several other prospects because of it. Buffy hadn't found any reason to fault his choice yet. They wove their leisurely way through the late crowds, drinking in the Roman night. The neighborhood where their flat was located was just starting to become trendy again after a decade or two of disrepair, and the sidewalks were full of people, laughing and calling out to each other in six different languages. Thirty years ago they'd have been called hipsters; Buffy wasn't up on what they were calling themselves now. Computer-driven cars zipped past, silent and efficient; in Europe these days it was rare to see the old self-driven internal combustion models. The _osteria_ on the corner filled the air with the tantalizing scent of grilled peppers and sausages, and a blast of music filled the street as the door to the basement dance club opened and swung shut again. 

The entrance to the building where they'd rented their home away from home was a few hundred feet away when the vampire jumped them, right outside the Café Moreno. Buffy felt the familiar tingle along the back of her neck a second before it materialized out of the alleyway leading down to the car park. It advanced on them with a yellow-eyed leer, fangs bared. "Pronti a morire!" it snarled.

That phrase wasn't in the guide book, but some things didn't need a universal translator. Buffy glanced at Spike; he understood more Italian than he spoke, and spoke more than he let on. "So, do we scream and run?"

Spike considered, patting his belly thoughtfully. "Dunno about you, but it's a bit too soon after dinner for a chase scene. What say we just kill him?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, all right, but it's too soon after dinner for a big fight scene, too, so let's make it quick."

"Attendere un minuto - " the vampire started, as it began to dawn upon him that things weren't going according to script, but that was all he had time for before Spike lunged forward and clamped a hand around his throat. Buffy's stake emerged from her purse just as swiftly, and made the traverse to the vampire's chest even faster. Their would-be assailant dissolved into a cloud of dust, glittering gold in the light of the café window.

Buffy returned Mr. Pointy to her purse. "Amateur," she sniffed. 

Spike offered her an elbow. "So, interested in dessert?"

She laughed. "I could be convinced."

******

Three flights of stairs in worn, cream-colored marble later, Buffy fumbled the apartment door open and flipped on the light. Their Roman Holiday Inn consisted of a tiny living-cum-dining room, flanked by an even tinier bedroom on one side, and an absolutely minuscule kitchen and bathroom on the other. The kitchen appliances had probably been installed before Buffy's mother was born, but its white-tiled retro-chic had enchanted her from the moment she'd walked in. 

Laid out on the small dining table were two bottles of Vin Santo. A large platter completed the tableau, heaped with tiramisu and cannoli. Buffy raised an eyebrow. "That's some impressively quick convincing."

Spike regarded her, a challenging twinkle in his eyes. "Arranged it with Mrs. Nascimbeni, just in case we worked up an appetite on the way home. If you're not hungry, of course, out it goes. But it seems a shame to let it go to waste."

Mrs. Nascimbeni was a culinary goddess in human form. Buffy laid a tentative hand on her stomach. She was still digesting dinner, but those cannoli looked excessively tempting, and slaying always roused her appetite. Besides, in the last couple of weeks, she'd grown accustomed to 'full' as a default state. Something to build on. "It'll go to waist all right. But you're right," she said virtuously, "we can't just throw it out. That would be wrong."

Her fingers went to the pesky top button of her jeans, because they were absolutely going to have to go if she were to battle the forces of wastefulness properly, but Spike stayed her. "Hold a bit," he said. His hands skimmed her body, lingering over the curves of her breasts and hips, settling at last against her tummy, taut against the imprisoning denim. "They've served well, these britches. Think they deserve a chance to go out fighting, yeah?"

Wait, did he want her to...? From the eager look in his eyes, he so did. Buffy's eyes widened in realization: he'd _planned_ this. Well, maybe not the alleyway vamp, but he'd noted the snugness of her jeans, and arranged this fortnight-long festival of esculent debauchery for the express purpose of busting her right out of them. 

She'd half-jokingly suspected him of wanting that for years, and now he'd actually gone and done it. The thought made a warm, excited pulse throb to life between her thighs. This was just a more elaborate version of a game they'd played hundreds of times before: _Buffy demurs that she can't possibly eat another bite, Spike tempts her to take just one more, Buffy succumbs and is amply rewarded for her shocking lack of self-control with deliciousness and orgasms._ She wasn't at all opposed to the concept, but considering she was going to need a whole new wardrobe soon, she was going to make him work for this one. She smiled and lowered her lashes, playing coy as she toyed with the button. "Why, Spike, I don't understand what you mean." She pouted; he could never resist the pout. "If I eat another bite wearing these pants, this button might just... pop right off."

Oooh, that had an effect. His Adam's apple jerked convulsively, and his voice was curiously husky. "Slayer, after all the things we've done over the last thirty-some years, don't tell me this is the one that's too weird for you."

A mischievous light came into her eyes. "Noooo, I wouldn't say that." She sashayed over to him, putting some serious sway into her hips, and was rewarded with a visible tenting of his jeans. "I just think I'd like some company this time around. What have we got in the fridge?"

********

A quick foray into the kitchen produced two bottles of otter's blood, a sizeable block of goose-liver pâté, and a round of the skeezy black-market casu marzu Spike adored. Thus fortified, she and Spike were soon lounging on the bed, platters of food lined up between them, wine and otter's blood on the night stand. "Got a game plan here, love?" Spike asked.

"I'm thinking about it. You go right ahead."

He did. The cannolis were perfect: flaky crust, rich sweet filling, a generous dusting of powdered sugar, all washed down with sweet red wine. Spike fed them to her one by one, and each one tasted and smelled a little better than the last. Maybe Mrs. Nascimbeni was a witch, and they were magic cannolis, bespelled so that once you took a bite, you had to finish them all, no matter how full you were already. Yeah, she was going to go with that explanation. 

Her jeans were now painfully tight, cutting a deep crease into her middle. She was starting to feel personal animosity towards whoever had sewed on that button. Spike's free hand alternated between massaging her stomach and slipping between her thighs, kneading the seam of her jeans. She arched against him, sucking powered sugar from his fingers as he popped the next cannoli into her mouth. She was starting to breathe hard now, as the pressure in her stomach magnified the insistent throb of her clit. The last cannoli was gone, though she couldn't remember finishing it. Her cheeks were flushed and her heart was pounding. She squirmed desperately against Spike's hand, and he stilled her needy whimper with a forkful of tiramisu. Mmmf, that was even better than the cannoli, but she'd never been so full in her life, she couldn't possibly... Apparently if Spike's fingers did _that_ , she could. 

She wondered sometimes if this was part of the legacy of demon power she'd taken on all those years ago: that when any normal person would shrink back overwhelmed, some primordial, demanding thing inside her howled with joy and growled "More!" instead. Had she just said that out loud? Whatever, Spike obliged, bless him, and she forged on past 'full' into some previously unknown gastronomical territory. Each bite became an erotic act in and of itself, bringing her closer and closer to full-body combustion. If her jeans didn't cut her in two first. Maybe, just maybe, she should think about begging for mercy, but everything tasted so _good_. Spike's voice in her ear was a constant, eager litany of "Come on, Slayer, one more, you can do it, here we go, that's my girl – " but her whole universe had narrowed to her thrumming clit and the pleasure-pain in her stomach. Another bite, another, another, _another_ \- she could see the bottom of the plate now, and was both relieved and disappointed. One more bite --

Spike broke into a triumphant grin; his sensitive vampire ears had caught the soft pop! of thread parting. All at once, the button gave way, flying across the room with an audible _spang!_ , and her liberated tummy split the zipper wide open. Buffy moaned in relief at the sudden glorious release, and then cried out as Spike's hand dove into her open jeans. Dimly, she heard cloth shredding as he disposed of her remaining clothes. Oh, who cared; they didn't fit anyway. His long fingers worked her sopping depths, plunging deeper, deeper, deeper. Scraping the last of the tiramisu from the plate with his free hand, he let her lick it from his fingers, and she clenched around him with bone-breaking force as she came. 

Gasping and euphoric, Buffy collapsed back against the pillows. She felt deliciously lightheaded and swoopy. Once upon a time, putting away a whole bottle of wine, much less two, would have put her out for the count, but she wasn't quite such a lightweight anymore, in any sense of the word. Spike's hands moved reverently over her body, burying his face in her breasts, nuzzling down to her navel and the pillowy hill of flesh it crowned. "Christ, you're gorgeous," he murmured. "Just look at you! Plump as a partridge, and all the better for it." 

His words dissolved into an indistinct, rumbling purr as his head disappeared into the damp curls at the foot of the hill. His tongue darted between her quivering thighs and supped at the honey there, suckling at her swollen clit till she came again. She could have drifted off into a happy coma right then and there, but she had things to accomplish. It took an heroic effort to lever herself up on her elbows, but Buffy managed it. She caught Spike's eye and grinned. "OK, big boy. It's your turn."

*****

It took some slow, careful maneuvering to straddle Spike's thighs without joggling her overstuffed tummy unduly, but Buffy managed that too. Spike purred in satisfaction as he caressed her full-moon contours. Come to think of it, he'd had always had a bit of a pregnancy kink, too. She let him play for awhile longer, luxuriating in the feel of his big cool hands soothing the angry pink line her waistband had cut across the tender flesh. What next? She'd never really done this from the other side before – mainly because Spike never needed to be coaxed into overindulging himself. "You know," she said, slowly. "I know you like to see me eat, but I've never quite gotten why."

Spike shrugged and cupped her breasts in his hands (there was more than enough of them to cup now), thumbing her nipples erect. "No big secret to it. When I first fell for you, so long ago now... you were worn so thin that year, from grieving over your mum and worrying over your sister, and I used say to myself, 'She should eat more, and if she'd let me take care of her, I'd see that she did.'" His eyes were tender. "Makes me feel I'm doing my job, seeing you with a nice tum on you. Gets me harder than hell, too."

That part was pretty obvious. "Oh." Her nipples pebbled instantly, and she could feel her cheeks flaming; leave it to Spike to make overeating sexy. She undid his belt, slipped it free of the loops and examined it. The leather was dull with age, with a succession of shiny worn spots marking where the buckle had fallen in younger, slimmer years. He'd owned this thing since she'd first met him, though he'd been buckling it on the very first hole then. It had even been a little loose. Hard to remember, when he was so comfortably solid now, just how terribly thin he'd been back then, when she could have counted every rib and tendon right through his shirt. "You know the funny thing? I like watching you eat, too. Because you're so happy when you're eating. And I really like making you happy." 

"Oh, believe me, you do," he breathed. The hem of his t-shirt had pulled free of its moorings, revealing a pale crescent of flesh, and she tugged it upwards over the curve of his paunch. The bulge in his Levis was almost as impressive; by either measure, she thought she could be pretty confident that she'd made him very happy indeed. She popped the buttons of his jeans and his cock sprang up immediately, tall and thick. 

Buffy contemplated it with admiration. "Mmmmm. You'd better lift me, because right now I don't think I can get on there by myself."

"You are a bossy bitch, aren't you?" With a laugh, Spike grasped her hips and eased her down over his erection. Oh, yeah, muscles all still present and accounted for. Juicy and relaxed as she was, he sank in to the hilt instantly, and she was way too full yet again, in a completely different but equally delightful way. She was in no condition for anything very acrobatic, but there was one set of Slayer muscles that had been getting an excellent workout on this trip, and she put them to good use now. 

Spike's eyes rolled back as she squeezed. "Now what, She Who Must Be Obeyed?"

Humming to herself, Buffy measured his belly with both hands, exploring the weight and heft of it, testing the depth of fat before she hit muscle. Years ago, when he'd first started to put on a pound or two, he'd laughingly assigned the responsibility for it to her, and just as laughingly, she'd accepted it; but there was more than a little truth to that. If he'd really wanted to, he could have maintained the Elgin Marble physique, even after the Mohra blood. It would just have taken a hell of a lot more austerity on his part – and Spike had taken one bite of her pig's blood soup and decided to hell with austerity.

She pulled the plate of casu marzu closer, and smiled down at him benevolently. "Since your kinky little scenario is costing me some new clothes, I think turnabout is fair play." She held up his belt. "I'm not going to put this on you now, because that would just be awkward, but I'm going to make you put it on when we're done, and it had better not fasten, on any hole at all. Challenge accepted?" Spike nodded, eyes sparkling. She tapped him on the nose with the fork. "Then get to work."

Spike ate the way he fucked, with total, sensual abandon. Buffy watched with fascination as the casu marzu was systematically reduced to crumbs far too small for any Who's mouses, and his long pink tongue flicked out to lick even those off the plate. Whether it was the food, or the lazy undulation of her hips which kept his rock-hard cock a hair short of detonating, or both, he was in heaven, his eyes half-lidded in bliss as he chewed. 

Buffy ran his belt through her fingers, counting memories off with each hole. The looseness had disappeared even before the whole thing with the Mohra blood, just because he'd started feeding again properly after she came back from the dead. He'd let it out to the second notch a few years later, after her ongoing experiments in vampire-friendly cuisine really got going. He'd held steady there for quite awhile, only moving to the third notch when he hit his late forties, and to the fourth in his mid-fifties. The fifth and last had come into play only a few years ago, and from the stretched-out condition of the leather, their recent exploits had put it under serious strain. 

His belly was starting to bump companionably against her own tummy as she moved against him. She measured his girth with her hands again; set against the breadth of his chest and shoulders, it gave him the air of a tousle-headed and unusually athletic vampire Buddha. She certainly had the urge to rub him all over for luck. "You've got a ways to go yet, William," she crooned, with a revolution of her hips that sent him cross-eyed. She'd never been much good at the dirty talk thing, but body language usually sufficed. Spike tossed the cheese plate aside and dove into the pâté with a will. He was starting to slow down now; the stuff was sinfully rich, and he'd more than kept up with her at dinner earlier. 

By the time he got down to the bottom of the tin, his eyes were starting to glaze over. She fed him the last slab of goose liver herself, forkful by forkful. He swallowed the last bite, tried and failed to pull his t-shirt all the way down, and sat back with an ecstatic groan. His cock was an iron rod within her, his balls even tighter than his belly. "Love, I'm about done for. Haven't room for another morsel, so for the love of God let me come!"

And _that_ was the key, she realized: Spike never needed to be coaxed to indulge himself. Demons were made for excess. Which meant he was rarely pushed to his limits, much less past them. He'd go much farther than she would without prompting, but there was just enough human restraint in him that he, too, needed a little incentive to tip him over that final cliff of sensation. He wasn't there yet, wherever there was. "Do me a little favor first," she said, an idea blossoming. "Vamp out for a minute." 

Mystified, Spike complied. A row of stubby horns sprouted along his brow ridges, his jaw elongated to accommodate his fangs, his fingernails thickened into claws, and glossy gray-green scales spread across his skin. No one had predicted that back when the Mohra blood first made him alive and mortal, but it made a weird sort of sense; even undead vampires got more demony as they aged, and Spike was packing a whole demon life into a merely human lifespan. Buffy traced one gleaming ivory incisor with her finger and nicked the pad on its razor-sharp tip. Blood welled up, and she let a drop or two fall on his tongue, allowing him just enough of a taste to let him know what he was missing. 

Quickly, before Slayer healing could close the wound, she leaned over to retrieved the bottles of otter's blood from the night stand. A couple of quick squeezes, and several fat red drops of blood lost themselves in each bottle's sanguine depths. His golden eyes lit up like lanterns as he realized what she was about. There was one thing he _always_ had more room for. "Nuh uh," she said, holding the bottles out of reach. "You said you were done, remember?" 

He licked his lips, nostrils flaring, pupils dilated. Yeah, there it was at last, that shameless, avid, screw-the-limits look she knew so well from the inside, the look of someone who _couldn't possibly_ but was going to anyway. "I might have been mistaken," he admitted.

She extended one of the bottles seductively. "Well... in that case... you can have some, but only if you promise to drink it all down to the last drop."

He actually hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. "Promise!" Then he snatched the first bottle from her hand, tipped it back and began to drain it in one long, reckless chug. 

She began moving again as he drank, her internal muscles rippling. Slayer's blood was like vampire Viagra, and she could feel him waxing even harder within her, impossible though she'd have judged that a minute ago. His belly jerked with each swallow, so round and tight now that she could see the pale creamy hide stretched between each individual scale. Spike finished the first bottle, licked the last drops off the rim, and all but ripped the second one from her hands. For a minute she thought she might have asked too much of him, but he grinned (an incredibly ~~sexy~~ terrifying expression in game face) and lifted the bottle in salute. "I always keep my promises to a lady," he said, and began to drink. 

Buffy found herself chanting, "Yes, yes, yes," as the level of blood in the bottle fell lower and lower, till Spike flung the empty across the room to shatter against the wall. With a wordless whoop, she clamped down hard, and Spike went off with an answering roar. Heedless of how full she still was, how full he must be, Buffy held on to his forehead-horns and rode him as he bucked beneath her, his belly rolling and jouncing against hers. Empty bottles and plates went flying, clattering across the floor. He was still hard, and she kept going, working his rampant cock furiously. Her own orgasm blazed to life, ebbed and flared and blazed again. 

Some considerable time later, Spike's demon features had melted into human ones once more, and the evidence dripping down her thighs argued that he'd come again too, several times. He was still half-hard, buried snugly within her as they lay belly to belly, tangled and sweaty and sated in the sheets. He'd be fast asleep in a minute. Buffy giggled; the wine was kicking in after all. "Wait, wait, wait," she cried. "We still have to see if we can make ends meet!" 

She flailed around in the sheets with one hand until she found his belt, and with some difficulty, succeeded in looping it around his waist. These days he normally buckled it underneath his paunch, but after that sterling performance she was going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Hitching it up to the point where his belly jutted out the furthest, she grasped both ends and pulled hard enough to draw a pained grunt. But no matter how hard she pulled, she couldn't quite get the buckle and the tip to meet across the pale expanse of skin. "Victory!" She giggled again, stroking the drum-taut curve of his belly. "Oh, my God, you look like you've swallowed a bowling ball."

"'S more or less what it feels like," he said with a drowsy belch. "And it's bloody fantastic. Christ, you're good at this. Never thought I could get that much down. Never thought I could want to." He grinned with loopy satiation. "All these years, and you can still show me something new."

Buffy snuggled closer. "Yep, I'm incredible. But you realize," she added severely, "that this can't be an everyday thing, or in six months they're going to have to roll us onto the plane."

His laugh made his belly shake like a small earthquake. "Still not seeing the problem, pet."

****** 

Sunlight was streaming in at the window when Buffy finally woke up, (they'd carefully positioned the bed when they moved in to ensure no unpleasant surprises) and Spike was still snoring at her side. 

Yawning, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, examining herself in the mirror on the bathroom door. She was no longer one wafer-thin mint away from bursting; that supercharged Slayer metabolism was doing its thing, busily turning fuel into energy. But she had a very nice tum on her indeed. After yesterday, there was no way she was going to squeeze into any of her other pairs of pants, but she had a skirt or two that might still fit. She glanced over at Spike. His paunch had resumed its more usual proportions; in its way, his hybrid system was just as efficient as hers. He might even get his old belt buckled again, if he put some muscle into it. 

Her mouth curved in a small smile. Maybe she'd get him a new one anyway. Just in case this did become an everyday thing.

The thought of Buffy Summers, Size 8, was surprisingly unscary. She took her belly in both hands and bounced it up and down. How many Slayers got to do that? She was sixty years old, though few people would have guessed it, by far the oldest Slayer on record. She'd done so many things Slayers were never supposed to do: fight the Council, break the age-old tyranny of the Slayer line, fall in love with a vampire, become the mother and the grandmother of demons. Go to Italy on sabbatical. There were dozens, hundreds of girls out there now, following in her footsteps. _Slayers can do all kinds of things, things you'd never have imagined. Have a life, if you want to. Have a family. Get old. Get fat._

Spike's eyes cracked open, and he smiled, sweet and brilliant. "Morning, Slayer. You look good enough to eat."

There was really only one thing to say. She reached over and patted his belly. "Maybe tonight. In the meantime, what's for breakfast?"

**END**


End file.
